


Let Sleeping Inquisitors Lie

by athos



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Inquisitor, Companions React, Cullen has brotherly feelings towards Lavellan, Dorian/Blackwall friendship, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Lace Harding isn't paid enough to deal with this shit, Mia Rutherford (mentioned), More tags to be added, Night Terrors, Platonic Cuddling, Scout Jim was exiled to the Exalted Plains, Sleep talking, Sleeplessness, Sleepwalking, Surprise!Norse mythology, Survivors Guilt, Thank the Maker for Varric, Twin Trevelyans, Wardrobe malfunctions, a frog?, boring Orlesian stuff, emergency mabaris!, enthusiastic cuddling, falling asleep in class, genderqueer Inquisitor, how many ruffles on Ruffles' nightie?, implied Cullen/Carver, platonic bedmates, red lyrium corruption, sleeping, sleeping while standing up, snoring, sonambulance, stupid demons, the Fade and the demons within, the right bed makes all the difference, the things that Cole doesn't know how to do
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athos/pseuds/athos
Summary: A series of short stories showing how Inquisition companions react to a sleeping (or dreaming, or sleepwalking, or snoring, or sleeptalking, or sleepless...anything having to do with or adjacent to sleeping) Inquisitor.A story style inspired bydragonagecompanionsreact.tumblr.comwhich began with me wanting to submit “companions react to the Inquisitor sleepwalking into their rooms and sleeping in their bed”, but prompts were closed, and then I started thinking about it and decided (with their blessing) to do it myself. It grew from barely formed, amusing headcanon reactions to little stories all having something to do with things that happen when people sleep.Each companion story/chapter features different Inquisitors. I will add to tags with each chapter I post (I’m hoping for one a week). I have ideas for thirteen stories (all companions, some advisers, some fan (Athos) favorites).





	1. Cassandra

Herah Adaar was first into the tent that night--not that Cassandra could blame her; the Tal-Vashoth was a tremendously driven woman, once she had set her course. That day they had cut a path from the Crossroads to Redcliffe farms and established an Inquisition camp, on the way closing two rifts, returning a wayward druffalo, and examining strange glowing skulls on podiums which, more strangely, illuminated humming shards or...something. Cassandra was not far behind her, crouching to tie the door-flap closed. Adaar was sprawled face-down on the bedroll, apparently deep in sleep. 

 

Cassandra observed the qunari. Adaar’s horns swept gracefully back from her head, which explained why she slept on her front. She’d removed her armor and was clad in short trousers and a shirt. Cassandra frowned and unfolded Adaar’s blanket and threw it over the larger woman. Perhaps her previous mercenary band had never come to Ferelden, and she didn’t know how chill it could get at night. Satisfied, Cassandra took off her boots and breastplate, lay down beside her new leader, pulled up her own blanket and closed her eyes. 

 

Cassandra awoke with a small shiver. The amount of light filtered through the canvas of their tent indicated she had awoken at her usual time, so it wasn’t the cold that had roused her, but…

 

Cassandra sat up and saw that her tent-mate had wrapped herself not only in  _ her _ blanket, but had stolen Cassandra’s as well. Cassandra felt a smile tugging at her lips, made a mental note to requisition additional blankets, and exited the tent. 

 

She courteously returned the apostate’s salutations and began her forms, but did not get very far before a strange sound caught her attention. She and Solas looked towards the tent she shared with Adaar, from which came sounds of discontent and struggle. Solas stood from his cross-legged pose and shared a frown with her. The noise from the tent became louder, and the sounds became distinct as mutterings and cursing. Something large jerked against the tent fabric. 

 

“Herald?” Cassandra called warily.

 

The tent flaps burst open and what could only be Adaar, completely wrapped up in blankets and tripping on the bedroll, stumbled out, her spat and grumbled curses muffled by the blanket tangled on a horn and binding her face and torso. Cassandra took a step forward to assist, but stopped at the sounds of tearing fabric and growls.

 

“Maker damned, arse-thumping,” another tear, the blanket-beast blindly staggering around, utterly oblivious to its surroundings, “nug-fucking,” another tear and Adaar’s arm and scowling head were free, “bullsh--”

 

“Herald, hold!”

 

Adaar whirled toward the sound of Cassandra’s warning, tripped over a rock, and toppled like a felled tree, face first, into the pond. Solas and Cassandra exchanged a bemused look. 

 

Adaar extricated herself from the shredded blankets and looked up into the serene face of a familiar druffalo. “Good morning,” she said breathlessly. The druffalo placidly ate a waterflower hanging from her right horn.

 

“Inquisitor, I--” Adaar stood and waved off Cassandra’s apology. 

 

“It’s alright; I’m awake now. Mountain ponds are very refreshing,” she observed, taking off her shirt and wringing it out. She leveled a pointed look at Cassandra. “No blankets, thank you.”

 

“Of course, Herald,” Cassandra agreed faintly. Adaar threw her damp shirt over a tree branch and went back into the tent. Cassandra didn't know how long she stared, but turned when she heard a familiar scratching of feather on paper.

  
Varric scribbled, a delighted grin on his face. “Can’t make this shit up, Seeker.”


	2. Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets an unexpected visitor. He doesn't mind.

 

 

It was truly remarkable how Dorian’s standards of luxury had changed since his flight from Tevinter. These days, the height of decadence was returning from the field to a bath and a proper bed--even if the bath consisted merely of magically heated water in a barrel that smelled like it had been used to age Ferelden ale and was just  _ barely _ large enough for Dorian to immerse himself, if he curled up. His bed was--well, he really had no complaints about his bed, except that it was empty.

 

After his bath he put on a soft nightshirt, refreshed the fire, and settled under the covers. He stretched out his limbs with a jaw-popping yawn and swiftly fell into the Fade.

 

So deeply asleep was he that he didn’t hear the disturbance at his door, or the rogue unlocking it with uncharacteristic clumsiness. He didn’t stir at all until a second boot hit the floor with a thump. He groggily summoned a soft magelight and recognized Mahanon. “Inquisitor, what are...you...” he trailed off, confused, because Mahanon was taking off his belt and crawling into bed beside him. 

 

Dorian tried again, “Lavellan? Are you--”

 

“SSSSHHHHHHHHH,” Mahanon’s voice was insistent and unnecessarily loud. He wrapped his arms and legs around Dorian’s body and rested his head on Dorian’s shoulder. More quietly he slurred, “‘m sleeeeeeeeping.” 

 

The way he drew out the word should have been unattractively childish; however, as with most things Mahanon-related, Dorian was charmed. Still, though. “...In  _ my  _ bed, Inquisitor?”

 

“You smell good.”

 

A selection of flippant replies rested on the tip of Dorian’s tongue, but remained unvoiced because Mahanon was already snoring softly. 

 

Dorian blinked drowsily. He should really do something about this, but he just couldn’t think of anything besides how comfortable and sleepy he was...

 

***

 

Dorian woke up slowly and stretched luxuriously--or he tried to, but there was a fiendishly attractive elf still wrapped around him. “Oh!” he exclaimed. "That actually happened.”

 

Dorian’s words roused Mahanon, who made a sleepy noise of contentment, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of Dorian’s shirt and inhaling deeply. With another pleased sigh that rumbled into a satisfied purr, he tilted his face toward Dorian’s. Brown eyes opened, slowly clearing and focusing on him. The lines of Mahanon’s vallaslin moved on his brow and accentuated his confused expression. “What…?” he began.

 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me, Inquisitor.  _ You’re  _ the one who barged in in the middle of the night, declared that I ‘smelled good’ and began snoring.”

 

Mahanon stared at him.

 

“And drooling,” Dorian added.

 

Mahanon quickly wiped his chin, discovered it was dry, and gave Dorian a look. “Just kidding,” Dorian admitted with a smirk. 

 

Mahanon was still staring at him. Dorian wondered if he’d misunderstood their flirting. He didn’t look angry or scandalized, just, sort of...struck dumb. Dorian frowned slightly. “Oh dear. I haven’t broken you, have I? Josephine will kill me.”

 

“No!” Mahanon blurted. “No, I just-- I sleepwalk sometimes. I’m sorry to have intruded.”

 

“Apparently you also sleep-lockpick and sleep-snuggle,” Dorian helpfully added. “I’m flattered that you sleep-judged my bed a goal worthy of expanding your skillset.” Mahanon’s limbs twitched around Dorian, and he examined Dorian’s expression carefully before holding him closer.

 

Was this an awkward silence or not? Dorian supposed that if he had to ask, the answer was yes.

 

That wouldn’t do at all. Dorian smiled charmingly. “Can’t say that I necessarily mind, but--”

 

“I thought I was dreaming,” Mahanon admitted at the same time. 

 

The two were silent a moment. Dorian’s reflexive discomfort with the honest sentiment in Mahanon’s statement was there, but was subdued by how pleasant and comforting Mahanon’s sleep-warmed body was, wrapped around his own. 

 

Mahanon had beautifully expressive eyes, and as the elf rested his chin on Dorian’s breast he observed some bashfulness and sheepishness, but also contentment and...hopefulness?

 

“Is that so?” Dorian asked softly, moving his hand under the covers to stroke Mahanon’s back and smiling when Mahanon’s limbs squeezed tighter for a moment. 

 

Mahanon ducked his head and hid his smile against Dorian’s chest briefly, then confessed,  “I haven’t slept this well since I left my clan.”

 

Oh. Well. “By all means, then, stay,” Dorian graciously invited. “Any night you like.”

 

It would be impossible for him to go back to sleep with the unexpected joy bubbling up in his chest, curling his lips into an irrepressible smile, but Dorian didn't mind. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I plan to update every week or so. 
> 
> Comments give me life and bring me joy! I would love to hear what you liked best.


	3. Cole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cadash is gonna have a long night.

 

 

 

Since Cadash was the only one (other than Solas and Varric, who were not on this expedition) who had no fears or misgivings about the man-spirit Cole, it was silently decided that Cole would share their tent. He followed them in and sat down while they took off their boots and readied for bed. Cadash was used to other people staring at them (with varying degrees of tact) while they took off their armor, so they didn’t really notice that Cole was sitting on his camp bed, watching them, instead of readying himself for bed.

When they had set their light armor against the rack and gathered a second blanket, Cadash looked at Cole with a frown. Cole was sitting, back-straight, completely clothed, looking right at them. He hadn’t even taken off his boots or his hat.

“Cole?”

“Yes?” the man-spirit answered in a distant voice.

“Is...there somethin’ you need?”

 _"The_ ‘Storm Coast" _, what an insipid name. Are all Southerners so uninspired when naming things?_ … _Creepy better not come too close or I’ll stick an arrow up his arse_ … _Why’s he just sittin’ and starin’? If he’s got a problem with me, he should just say so and get it over with_ … I don’t have a problem with you, Cadash. What would I need?”

Cadash paused. “Y’aren’t... D’you need anythin’ before you go to bed?” they finally asked, sitting on their bed. “It’s safe to sleep here; Sera’s watchin’ and we cleared the area today.”

"I know. I was there.”

Cadash looked at him, and Cole stared right back. With a shrug, they lay down under the covers, closed their eyes and began the breathing practice that helped them relax enough to sleep. Four count in, six count out. Four count in…they were still being watched...six count out. Four count in, six count out. Four count in--Branka’s brass _balls_.

“Cole.”

“Yes?”

“Why’re you watchin’ me?” Cadash opened their eyes and gave Cole a look.

The young man tilted his head in confusion and responded. “Should I watch someone else?”

Cadash genuinely had no idea how to respond to that.

" _Someone else, there’s no one else here. Doesn’ he know it’s weird to just stare, creepy, Sera calls ‘im creepy, now I see_ \--Oh, now I see. I didn’t know. Should I try to sleep, too?” Cole offered helpfully.

Cadash scratched their head. “Yeah, you should try’n sleep. We’re gonna do a bit of hiking tomorrow. Just… just do what I do. But take off your boots and hat.”

They watched, bemused, as Cole followed their instructions and lay down with a look of intense concentration on his pale face. They almost said something, but before they could Cole stood up and lay down again, this time _under_ the covers. And a third time, with the pillow beneath his head instead of his feet.

Closing their eyes, Cadash resumed their counting ritual, breathing out their passing irritation at how Cole was sneaking glances at them every few minutes. Four count in, six count out. Four count in, six count out. Four count in…

“Cadash?”

They jerked awake unpleasantly.

“Am I doing it right?”

Cadash sighed heavily. “...You _were_.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took out the space between paragraphs-- I write these in googledocs, and there isn't a space between paragraphs automatically there. Lemme know if you prefer having the larger spaces (like in previous 2 chapters) better than the more compressed version here.


	4. Vivienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon is not sleeping. Vivienne takes action.

 

 

 

 

It was hardly surprising that Herald, now Inquisitor, Lavellan looked tired in the several days after they found Skyhold. He’d admitted as much when she had asked him directly. The poor thing was obviously still intimidated by her, and while ordinarily awe was an effect she cultivated, she certainly did not wish for the Herald of Andraste to be so discomposed at the thought of speaking to her that he would not hear her advice. To that end, she kept her distance while they were settling into the old fortress. Goodness knows her expertise and determination were required to ensure that Skyhold looked as formidable as it needed, inside and out, to be an appropriate stronghold for the last hope of Thedas.

 

Two weeks later, the grounds were approaching acceptability and the furnishings in the Great Hall would do for the moment, and the few noble guests who had arrived were suitably impressed and supportive of the Inquisition--not that the Inquisitor cared for these details, which was why he needed Josephine and Vivienne. In any case, even the events with which the Inquisitor concerned himself were going quite well.

 

Mahanon Lavellan, however, looked _terrible_. Vivienne observed him coming and going around Skyhold from the courtyard and, later, from her salon in the Great Hall, and what she observed greatly concerned her. The bags under his eyes had grown darker and more sunken, an aura of tension and brittleness followed him, and his unfailingly polite responses were a _touch_ harsher than needful (though fortunately the foolish lords and ladies were so baffled at the radical notion of an elf in power that they never noticed the error which, had it come from a human mouth, would have been almost scandalous. On one hand, Vivienne was pleased that Orlesian racism would cause people to underestimate Lavellan in the Game, but on the other hand she was offended that most of the Game’s audience would be too dull-witted to appreciate the Inquisitor’s subtlety and wit).

 

Something had to be done.

 

Vivienne effortlessly timed her entrance so that she approached Lavellan as he finished his conversation with the dwarven engineer Gatsi. “Inquisitor, I require a moment of your time,” she declared, noting with hidden dismay that he jumped at her voice. He silently followed her up the stairs to her salon, and stood awkwardly in front of her when she sat on the divan.

 

“My dear, I apologize for my bluntness, but you look dreadful. Are you getting enough sleep?” she asked sympathetically, gesturing for him to join her.

 

Lavellan looked stricken. He flushed and said, “I’m sorry, Enchanter Vivienne. I--” he paused, shuffling his feet but making no move to sit. “I haven’t been able to sleep much since we got here. Can’t get my mind to quiet, no matter what I do. There’s just stone here, stone and snow. The air feels strange, dry and thin, empty, and my quarters, they’re very nice but they’re too far away to hear even the trees in the courtyard, and nothing sounds right or feels right and--” he seemed to realize he was babbling, poor thing. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious, Madame de Fer. I apologize for bothering you,” he finished meekly.

 

Vivienne waved her hand. “I am not bothered.” She looked at him and waited until he raised his eyes to meet hers. “Darling, granted I am far better at reading people than most, but you are the face of the Inquisition, and you must _always_ look your best.”

 

Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say; Lavellan looked like he was about to cry. “Yes, Madame, I know. I’ll, um, I’ll figure out something; it’s not your problem.” Vivienne could hardly hear his words, they were spoken so softly.  “I’m sorry, Madame Enchanter,” he finished, turning to flee.

 

What _was_ it about her that so discomfited him? She hadn’t witnessed it with anyone else in the Inner Circle, and she’d been told that Clan Lavellan was quite familiar with humans. It was frightfully inconvenient. She stopped his retreat with a hand at his elbow, though she had to quickly rise to catch him. She kept her hand lightly on him until he turned to face her again. She didn’t quite know what to say to put him at ease; if she hadn’t been so concerned for his well-being, she might have resented him for putting her in such an uncomfortable position. Perhaps a more familiar address...

 

“Do not apologize, Mahanon.” He looked up, surprised at her use of his first name. “I do not bring it up to make you feel guilty; of course this is all new for you, and in addition to you being under quite a bit of stress.” She continued slowly, “As you are my friend, and as I am rather fond of you, I am quite happy to offer my assistance.”

 

His bewildered expression would have been charming if he hadn’t been so exhausted. “Really?” he asked.

 

“Of course, my dear.” She smiled kindly-- at least, she hoped Mahanon saw the kindness she intended. It had been so long since she’d smiled at someone without intending to frighten them to some extent. “Now sit down here, and let’s discuss some possibilities.”

 

That evening, after a brief conversation with the elven herbalist, Vivienne presented Mahanon with three different elixirs to encourage peaceful rest. She reassured him that it was far easier to craft potions for non-mages like him, and that it was no trouble-- a small lie, but the inconvenience of crafting special potions was far less trouble than having a depleted and weary Inquisitor. She instructed him to tell her which worked best so that she could make enough for his next expedition.

 

***

 

Mahanon was tired after two weeks in the Exalted Plains, but thank the Creators it was the weariness of long physical labor instead of the soul-draining fatigue of sleeplessness. He climbed the many, many stairs to his quarters and stopped, stunned, when he opened the door.

 

There were... _trees_. Trees, in his cavernous chambers. Trees potted around the cold, stone walls of the room and at each corner of the bed--a new bed, smaller and with higher sides. A rune glowed at the base of each unadorned planter pot. The full canopies of the trees spread lushly up over the high and distant ceilings. He stumbled a few steps forward, dropping his pack heedlessly to the floor and running his hand over the soft, curling leaves of a fern potted next to the couch. The air was no longer cold and sterile from the mountains, but refreshingly damp and smelled of loam and delicate flowers. The room was hued a familiar green, with the light from outside filtered through foliage.

 

Movement from above caught his eye right as he heard a flutter and chirp behind him. He turned and laughed as a Marcher finch tilted its red head, looking at him curiously from where it clung to rough grey bark.

 

“They aren’t tame, precisely,” drawled Vivienne from behind his desk. In contrast to her words, another Marcher finch perched on her elegant finger, and she smiled indulgently at it. “But I’m told they are calm and friendly and don’t require more room than you have here in order to be content.” She gently waved the bird away.

 

Mahanon knew his jaw was slack, but even as Vivienne rose gracefully from her seat and approached him he couldn’t overcome his surprise enough to close it.

 

She gestured to the plants surrounding them. “I know these aren’t from your home, my dear, but these Ferelden varieties will thrive even at this altitude. The runes will keep the soil moist and supply whatever else trees need to grow.” She gestured at the open doorways to the balconies. “Lord Dorian and I fiddled with barriers and developed some that will let you and your guests through, but will keep smaller creatures such as the birds from flying out, and they will also keep heat and humidity in the room. I’m quite pleased with them, and impressed with Lord Dorian’s imagination.”

 

“I...I don’t… You did this, for me?” Mahanon asked.

 

“Well, of course, dear. It wasn’t just me; in addition to Lord Dorian, you’ll have to thank Ambassador Montilyet for arranging the expedited transportation of the trees, and Sister Nightingale for use of her ravens to contact Clan Lavellan for advice, and the birds. With the birds came these letters,” she said, handing him several sealed scrolls. He managed to make his arms work in time to take them before they fell.

 

She looked around the room with a look of distant satisfaction. “And now, as I am finished with messenger-duty, I will leave you to your rest, which one hopes will be easier in a more familiar environment.” She nodded to him and swept toward the stairs.

 

Finally Mahanon found his tongue. “Wait, Enchanter!”

 

She stopped and surveyed him. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

 

He looked around and marveled at how everything that was foreign and wrong about this space had been transformed into something welcoming and comfortable. His bed was no longer a high, flat expanse of loneliness he feared falling from, but instead appropriately sized for an elf and more reminiscent of the hammocks he was accustomed to. The ceilings were no longer implacable and remote, but softened and closer and more real. Instead of a cold and hollow reminder of how different everything was and how alone he was, this place could be a proper sanctuary for him. Even the ever-present glow from the Anchor was camouflaged and muted by the cozy, green ambiance. His wide eyes shone with sincerity and gratitude. “ _Thank_ you,” he finally said.

 

“Of course, my darling,” she replied. “Sleep well, and think nothing of the favor you now owe me,” she said with a smile, and Mahanon found himself smiling back.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any to offer, I would appreciate feedback on my writing of Vivienne. As much as I respect her character and accomplishments, and how much she obviously cares for the Inquisitor if you befriend her, I have difficulty liking her because of how she treats and speaks to other companions (especially Blackwall) and what I perceive as a lack of empathy to the suffering of other Circle mages. 
> 
> I tried to spotlight in this story how much Vivienne cares about the Inquisitor (not only on a Savior Of Thedas level, but a personal one), but how the Inquisitor might be confused and taken aback by her (Makes knows *I* would be).


	5. Solas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas finds Evelyn in the Fade. There's a fluffy ending, but I wrote this intending angst and horror, so be warned. (spoilery content in the notes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to have a greater sensory experience, listen to these DA:I music tracks while you read:
> 
> [The Place of all Fears](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIpcP0wSXNc&t=5s)  
>  [Lord Seeker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cz--r0JMRkU)  
>  [In Hushed Whispers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IR2k6-_Hmc)  
>  [Champions of the Just](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x7zqB78yq4)  
>  [The Wrath of Heaven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-7qJDDL_sU)  
>  [Nightmare's End](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdXk2wVEzCs)
> 
> Or, I found this really [convenient playlist!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJjZDKO7i4mcp7eORmjFUUlvPMKhjKSTp)

 

* * *

 

  

“Max! Max!”

 

She doesn’t know how she got into this maze of red lyrium, and it doesn’t matter--her twin is here. The one thing she knows with all certainty is that Max is in the maze, somewhere, and if she can find him, she can save him. The letter-bearing ravens, the scouts watching for any word, every failed attempt to find him after the Conclave explosion, they don’t matter, because she can save her brother, if only she can _find_ him.

 

“Max!” she yells. She slows to catch her breath and tries a different tactic, “MAXWELL!” He _hates_ being called ‘Maxwell’, and she waits for him to swear at her, but hears nothing.

 

Perhaps he’s unconscious. She looks around, and all she sees is the red haze of the lyrium. It distorts the air around her with its sanguine aura and _wrongness,_ a discord that grates against her, and its presence is so thick it feels like it should be difficult to walk through.

 

She starts running again, calling out her twin’s name at each identical intersection, skidding to frantic halts just shy of the toxic mineral. The red lyrium... it’s the unfeeling manifestation of everything wrong, everything she fears. She had worried for her twin in the absent way an adult worries for another capable adult during a time of crisis, but what she saw marching against Haven, the monsters she fought against… When she was confronted with the consequences of siding with her fellow mages, when she saw what her turned back had cost the Templars, had turned the Templars _into--_

 

Her dread, a spiky knot in her stomach, distracts her and she stumbles, barely catches herself and tumbles forward into a roll. Cassandra would scold her poor form. Back on her feet, she takes a few precious moments to slow her breathing in an attempt to dispel the distracting disquiet, but it’s no use. The nauseating pulse of foreboding and dismay had only grown within her since she saw the first tainted Templars attacking Haven. How? How had the Templars been so corrupted? How could she have--

 

Maker, _Max._ She can still find Max; she can find him and save him, it might not be too late, she has to run, has to find him!

 

The buzz of the red lyrium swells around her, the din driving her to her knees. She cautiously opens her eyes when the noise fades, and she isn’t in the red lyrium maze anymore. Instead, she kneels on a stone floor, the cold seeping through her robe. The scraps of hay on the floor are dirty...a prison cell? Then she sees the still body across the room from her, a well-built man with familiar hair, a scar on his neck from their childhood cat, the Templar sword stitched on the back of his undertunic mottled with blood.

 

“Max!” she gasps, scrambling to him and pulling his heavy body towards her. “Max, can you hear me?” She feels his cool forehead, touches his neck to search for a pulse. “Max!”

 

He moans and his eyes flutter open. They are red.

 

Evelyn hardly has time to recoil when red light twists around them and she’s on her feet, chained by her wrists, arms stretched out behind her as she strains to reach her twin. On the other side of the room, Maxwell is bruised and bloody and his face is pinched with suffering. His eyes, now brown like her own, like they’re _supposed_ to be, meet hers.

 

“Evelyn,” he croaks.

 

“Max, hold on, I--” she struggles in the chains, makes motions as though to cast but she _can’t,_ she can’t reach her mana so instead she wrenches her wrists against the unyielding metal.

 

“Evelyn,” his chapped lips twist with betrayal. “Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me to die?”

 

She freezes at his hoarse words, jaw slack. “Max, no, I didn’t, I-- I tried everything I could think of!” She’d even asked Solas if someone living could be found via the Fade, ‘to find Samson and Corypheus,’ she’d claimed, loathe to appear selfish. Solas, of course, had seen through her deception and told her, not unkindly, that finding a corrupted magister such as Corypheus would be next to impossible, much less a single human. She had nodded tightly, ashamed of her transparency, and left without a word.

 

She continues beseechingly, “I’ve been searching, Andraste’s Grace! You must believe me!”

 

“Look at what they’ve done to me!” he demands, trying and failing to get to his feet, too weak to do anything but glare bitterly at her. He bites at his split lips and blood dribbles down his bruised chin. “I need lyrium, I _need_ it, but they only offer the red. How long has it been, sister? How long since you betrayed me?”

 

She dumbly shakes her head. The have him. The Venatori. Oh, but Maker, there’s still hope! He’s not gone yet, not become a monster--

 

“They’re waiting for me to beg for the red, and I can’t hold out much longer, sister, not even for you.” Max finally gets his feet under him and laboriously stands, leaning his scraped and blood-smeared arms and back on the cold stone wall behind him. “You think Cullen tells you half of it? The agony of the song we can’t hear anymore? I thought I was having the worst headache, but it’s been...how long has it been?” He shakes his head, winces, and brings up a blood-smeared hand to it. “I can’t move without pain, I can’t sleep! If they gave me food, I couldn’t eat it, because my body only wants one thing! Just when I think, sometimes, that the worst is over, or that I’m getting used to this misery, they come, and they hold it before me and… and my--” Max clutches matted, brown hair in his shaking hand and yells in frustration. “And my body _screams_ for it, and it’s so hard to remember…” He sobs, and looks accusingly at her. “How long should I resist, when you won’t even come for me?”

 

“No, brother, _no_ ,” she insists, horrified at his words. She feels another chill, and remembers Commander Cullen shaking and ashamed with his want for lyrium, putting the decision in her hands, giving her another responsibility she doesn’t want. She feels tears slide down her cheek, red light from nowhere reflecting off of them and shining into her eyes.“I’m trying to find you, I swear to the Maker, ever since the explosion I’ve--”

 

Something screams horribly all around her and she instinctively squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them again, she’s back in the damned maze, the change so sudden that she falls forward, no longer restrained by the chains, onto a pillar of twisted red stone. With a cry she flings herself back and looks around in confusion. “MAX!” she screams. “Max, I’m here, I’ll find you!” She starts running between the growing, misshapen walls. If she can find him, she can rescue him, and he’ll be ok, they can make him safe at Skyhold. She’ll find him, and he won’t suffer any more because of her, he won’t hate her, Maker, please, please...

 

Max’s voice resonates around her, gentle and familiar, as though he’s leaning against the headboard with her and reading aloud, like he did when they were children. **“Then it screamed. Not a roar or a growl--a scream, all rage and pain.”**

 

She runs and runs and a pillar of lyrium falls forward and she dodges it but she’s not quick enough and she’s chained to the prison wall again, screaming and crying and hurling herself futily towards Max and the two savage Red Templars who roughly hold him still. They can’t hear her, Max can’t hear her, because they taunt him over her desperate words, their sinister voices asking, “Where is your sister? Doesn’t she love you?” and “The Inquisition grows stronger by the day. You’d think that if you mattered, she would have found you by now.”

 

Max weakly shakes his head and whispers, “No, no, she’ll come for me, she’ll come--”

 

“Yes!” she insists, “Yes, Max, I swear! I’m looking, I’m coming for you!”

 

The awful sight before her flickers back to Max alone on the floor, still himself, uncorrupted, and then back to him weakly struggling against the Red Templars who restrain him with contemptuous ease and sick carmine smiles. Max begs, pleading and weeping, less and less able to endure their too-strong fists and terrible words, and Evelyn shrilly screams in denial and impotent rage when he breaks and finally asks for the lyrium, _any_ lyrium. Even the red.

 

They make him beg for it, and he does.

 

She howls her fury and pain, but even above the noise in her ears and the rage and terror that drive her she hears the crack of her thumb dislocating. She wrenches her broken hand through the cold metal. With her bloody, broken, but free hand, she reaches with all her might and she can almost, _almost_ reach him, but it’s too late-- Max transforms before her eyes, sprouting malignant growths of red lyrium, screaming in torment and relief.

 

How can she hear his voice, deep and calm, while she’s watching him scream? **“As I drew my blade, all I could think was: ‘There's a templar in there’.”**

 

Evelyn hears herself whimper, and the whimper echoes off the red lyrium she’s again surrounded by. She cries, “Max! Where are you?”

 

“Evelyn,” he says, right behind her. She whirls around, hope and relief in her eyes, but the feelings sicken and turn into denial and terror because it’s Max, her twin, her best and closest friend, but it’s _not._ He grins, his teeth red with lyrium and blood, his eyes red with lyrium and madness, and repeats her name. “Evelyn,” he promises (how could she have thought it was his voice? Now that she can see him, she hears everything wrong with it, the vague and discordant echoes, twisting and perverting her memories of him), “I’m coming to kill you, sister.”

 

She wants to cry, she wants to refuse what she sees, she wants to wake up, but all she can do is turn and run as fast as she can through the twists and turns of lyrium--this time not to find her twin, but to escape him.

 

The red mist throbbing from the lyrium fills her blurry vision and when it clears, she’s in the War Room with her advisers and the Inner Circle. They all look older, more tired, more scarred. Cullen’s hands shake constantly, and Evelyn quickly looks away.

 

Leliana speaks quietly. “We have located him.”

 

Evelyn looks at her Spymistress, feeling the ghost of hope stir from its grave in the bottom of her boots.

 

“Inquisitor, you must kill him.”

 

The hope dies again and her shoulders curl inwards. A keening cry sounds from a distance, and once again she hears Max’s voice: **“Somewhere in that thing was a brother or sister of the Order; every fiber of my soul was crying out to them.”**

 

Cullen speaks, though he’s clearly reluctant. “Your bothe--” he’s cut off with an elbow to his side. Cullen glares at Varric and resumes, “Your brother is second only to Samson in Corypheus’ chain of command. We cannot win unless they are all dead.”

 

She shakes her head, and her breath shudders with repressed sobs. One by one, everyone in the Inner Circle tells her that she must kill her brother. She begins arguing, insisting that she just needs more time, that there _must_ be a cure. Suddenly Dagna is there, shaking her head sadly. Evelyn stares at her mutely, looks at each of them--her friends, her support--and sees their resignation.

 

A long wail, somehow both miserable and triumphant, cuts through the buzzing in her ears, the pounding in her skull. She thinks she should cry, that she should argue more, _make_ them see, make them give her more time, but somehow she knows it would be of no use. Another wail begins, rising and falling in pitch, slithering insidiously into her and twisting her fear and grief into... Her knees feel weak, and she braces herself on the war table, overcome with swells of hopelessness.

 

Another sickening red flash and she’s surrounded by the stone prison again, chained to the wall with her arms stretched painfully to each side. A Red Templar stands on the other side of the room, his armored back to her. She tries to swallow her despair but cannot, and it sticks like a bitter stone in her throat. The Templar turns to face Evelyn, and it is Max. He steps towards her and a sadistic smirk splits his face. He’s never looked at her like that, and it’s the most horrible thing she’s ever seen. His eyes glow red.

 

Max says in his corrupted, echoey voice, “You never stood a chance, you know. Even if you’d tried as hard as you should have, dear sister, it was hopeless from the beginning.” She’s shaking uncontrollably. A wave of red floods the room, and she flinches hard at the second figure in front of her, its silhouette too tall, dreadfully familiar and utterly wrong.

 

Corypheus rests a long-fingered hand on Max’s armored shoulder and intones, “Your sister has abandoned you. Your Maker has abandoned you.” He turns Max to face him and breaks a shard of red lyrium from his misshapen body. “I will make you strong!” Each word is louder and more terrible than the word before, ringing and echoing in the small space and rattling her chest. Corypheus stabs the pulsing fragment of his body into Max’s chest.

 

Evelyn screams, hanging limply in the bloody chains that hold her up, to watch her brother’s body in its death throes. She can barely shake her head, and she closes her eyes but then then there’s another pulse of red and Max is reviving, twisting, mutating before her disbelieving eyes. The red lyrium rises from under his skin like crimson bruises and breaks through, splitting and tearing him apart. What was Max becomes a horror, his arms as spears of red lyrium and his face--his face!-- still terribly recognizable. The lyrium in him shudders, cracks and ripples again and he’s swelling and bursting into a behemoth, everything distorted except for his face. Evelyn can’t even draw breath to cry out anymore, drowning in red-tinted despair.

 

The behemoth fades away, and Max appears again, mostly human, though undeniably corrupted. His expression is cruel, and it seems wrong that his face--her beloved twin, her other half-- can look so unlike him. He steps close, too close, and mockingly asks her, “Do you know what happens when red lyrium gets into a mage?” His red eyes are filled with malicious anticipation.

 

Evelyn goes rigid with visceral fear, its jagged acridness cutting through the desperation and giving her breath to speak.

 

“Max, no, this isn’t you!” Evelyn begs in a whisper, “Please!”

 

Max’s real voice is above her, very far away. **“Whoever it might have been... they were lost to us, swallowed by corruption and lies.”**

 

Corypheus chuckles, nasty and satisfied, and the sound flays her skin. Max raises his right fist and it transforms into a dagger of reflective red. He leans in close, intimate, his nearness an unspeakable echo of their cherished former affection, and whispers, “Let’s. Find. Out.” Then her twin is stabbing her with the red lyrium shard coming out of his arm, and Maker knows if the betrayal is more or less agonizing than the tearing of her flesh. The red lyrium poisoning her amplifies her terror and anguish until she feels she will burst but there’s nowhere to explode to--she can’t even scream because he’s pouring liquid red down her throat, his red-studded, gauntleted hand crushing her mouth closed, pinching her nose shut.

 

_“Inquisitor.”_

 

Is that her name? It’s a voice she knows, but not Max. It’s...it’s from the War Room, one of her friends who wants her to kill her twin.

 

“No, don’t make me, please, I won’t kill him--”

 

Max again, his voice comforting and pure, **“I helped the only way I could, the only way any of us can.”**

 

Her throat is raw from screaming and scoured by bile from vomiting out the red lyrium that he forced on her. She’s free, on her hands and knees, still spitting up acid and blood with every contraction of her useless body.

 

“No!” she sobs wretchedly.

 

**“We must end their suffering.”**

 

_“Inquisitor Trevelyan, this is a dream.”_

 

Max appears again in front of her and her heart lurches with fear instead of the joy and relief she wants to feel. He’s newly-poisoned by the red lyrium, groaning and struggling in pain. He looks up at her from his prone position on the uncaring stone and desperately begs, “Kill me, Evelyn!”

 

**“And…”**

 

She keens, reaching for him but she’s not close enough.

 

**“...Maker willing…”**

 

“Please, sister! Please, kill me before it’s too late!” he pleads.

 

**“...we must try to remember them as they were.”**

 

She tries again, she almost touches him, but two Red Templars appear and drag him away. “Remember me!” he cries to her, too weak to struggle against his captors.

 

She tries hopelessly to catch up, crawling on hands and knees, moaning his name. She almost grabs his wrist and he howls, “How could you forget me?” She screams again--had she ever stopped?--in despair and denial, pulling herself after him, stretching out her hand after him when she can't move any longer, gasping and weeping into the uncaring earth, eyes wet and raw, staring fixedly at where her twin was.

 

_“EVELYN!”_

 

She hears that voice, but it isn’t Max. She sees red, and doesn’t care.

 

She doesn’t see the spirits of hopelessness and melancholy growing into despair demons, dreadful and hunched figures that appear constantly pulled down due to the Fade’s visual distortion and their own loathsome natures.

 

She doesn’t see the wisps of panic combining into lesser terrors who avariciously lean towards her horror, or the fear demons that follow, summoned by the growing feast. Erupting from their bent backs, their articulated, spidery legs twitch in anticipation.

 

She doesn’t see the old and immensely powerful demons orchestrating her torment, one of Fear and one of Despair, sending out lesser demons and striving to outdo each other, fighting over her pain.

 

She doesn’t see the dissolving remains of the secondary demons, cut down in a path toward her. She doesn’t hear their surprise or dismay.

 

She doesn’t see Solas, his eyes burning white-blue, casting power she doesn’t know he possesses.

 

She doesn’t see him draw yet more power and snarl, doesn’t hear the terrible sound that reverberates through the miasma of fear and despair, scouring the nightmare and ending her ordeal.

 

* * *

 

 In a crushing and absolute gesture that true Templars aspire to imitate with their Smite and Silence, Solas banishes the old spirits who fight over the Inquisitor. When they are alone and she lays gasping and weeping on a plain stone floor, he approaches her, brow furrowed with concern.

 

“Inquisitor.” Even though the demons are gone, it is clear that she still struggles to escape from the nightmare so cunningly wrought for her.  He looks into the indistinct distance and sends a silent summons. Then he crouches down in front of her and gently rests a hand on her shaking shoulder. “Evelyn, look at me,” he bids her.

 

At length, she calms enough to meet his worried gaze, but it’s longer than he’d like before she recognizes him. “Solas,” she says in a wrecked voice. “Solas?”

 

“Yes, Evelyn. You are in the Fade.”

 

She looks lost, confusion plain in her tear-drowned eyes. “It was a dream?” she rasps quietly.

 

At the moment, she looks nothing like the fierce and compassionate leader he’s come to respect, but rather more like a frightened child beseeching their parent to reassure them that monsters aren’t real. He shuffles closer to her and rests his arm across her shoulders, drawing her in. “It was a nightmare, Evelyn. I came as soon as--” he sighs, running his free hand over his bare head. “I came as soon as I could.”

 

She nods, but he knows the action is rote and does not signify understanding.

 

He stands and draws her up with him. “Come with me,” he says in a light tone. “I will take you someplace more pleasant.” She silently obeys, walking beside him on the grassy path that grows beneath their feet.

 

After they have gone a ways towards a place he knows well, Solas looks back through the shrinking doorway from where they came. He sees a glimpse of a Fear demon, the strongest he’s ever observed, shadows writhing around its articulated pincers and the image of a monstrous… something, with too many eyes, towering over it. Solas feels a fleeting impression of patient amusement, and it’s gone.

 

He frowns, but turns back to Evelyn. She sits cross-legged in a sunny field from his memories, watching baby halla stumble curiously around her. He feels her wonder and cautious relief. One comes close enough to sniff at her face, and she laughs when it touches her nose and jumps back. The adults are calmly watching, content to let their young play with the stranger. Solas crosses the field and sits down beside her. He holds out his hand for another halla fawn to smell.

 

“Did you grow up here?” she asks. She sniffs and wipes half-dry tears from her face.

 

He conjures a handkerchief and gives it to her. “No, but I have found happiness and respite here.”

 

She smiles weakly, and extends a hand to a fawn. When it allows her to stroke its back, her smile grows stronger. “Any place with baby animals is a happy place.”

 

“Ah, I recall you saying as much.”

 

“I didn’t know the babies had spots.”

 

Solas smiles and looks behind him, seeing three joy wisps and beckoning them closer. One touches his mind, reads his request and shines happily. “Perhaps these will be more familiar,” he says, holding out a wrinkly brown mabari puppy.

 

Evelyn squeals and laughs helplessly when the puppy enthusiastically licks her face, straining to reach more of her. Solas gestures to the other two joy wisps who happily transform into two more puppies and pounce on her, playfully pulling Evelyn down to lie back in the grass, gasping and giggling with glee, her earlier anguish fading away.

 

Solas smiles and makes himself comfortable in the grass. He’ll watch over her, invite more kind and peaceful spirits and wisps to occupy her, ask spirits of Valor and Strength to stand vigilant over her, call in favors owed from old friends, whatever is needful to make her rest easy.

 

His smile falters when he notices that in the Fade, the Anchor does not scar her left hand. A wet nose touches his own hand, and he absently scratches behind the puppy’s ears. She deserves all the help he can give.

 

* * *

 

> **Codex Entry:**
> 
> _We could have held off a battering ram, but the behemoth? It took the gate off at the hinges. Then it screamed. Not a roar or growl—a scream, all rage and pain. As I drew my blade, all I could think was: "There's a templar in there". Somewhere in that thing was a brother or sister of the Order; every fiber of my soul was crying out to them. But whoever it might have been, whoever's son or daughter, they were lost to us, swallowed by corruption and lies. I helped the only way I could, the only way any of us can. We must end their suffering. And, Maker willing, we must try to remember them as they were._
> 
>   
>  —From the reports of Knight-Captain Veddir, tactical consideration for the Inquisition

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this headcanon, there are two Trevelyans-- twins Max and Evelyn. Evelyn is a mage and went to the Circle and Max became a Templar to stay with her. They stayed together after the Fall of the Circles and made their way to the Conclave, where they were separated. Evelyn got the Anchor, and Max went missing. 
> 
> I'm not sure if it counts, but this might contain some body horror, and has a lot of red lyrium.


	6. The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron Bull really likes sleeping with Malika Cadash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astute readers may note that the author has a thing for cuddling. Not gonna apologize.

Bull liked sleeping with Malika Cadash. Not the way he usually slept with cute red-heads, but genuinely _sleeping._ He knew Cadash wouldn’t be interested in his usual bedroll routine. As much as he enjoyed innuendo (more like “in _your_ end-o”--ha! He’d have to remember that one) and coming across as irrepressibly libidinous, what he enjoyed about sleeping with Cadash was that even when their belongings were between them in the tent, Bull always woke up with a red-headed dwarf curled up into a ball, tightly pressed against his side and under his outstretched arm. The first few times it had happened, he’d awoken first and was able to move her back to her bedroll without waking her.

One morning in the Plains, he decided to stay a-bed and rest a while longer. Only a few minutes later, he felt Malika stir into consciousness and then freeze-- not the stillness of repose, but the stillness of an animal not wanting to be seen by a predator. Bull lay still, breathing deeply as though he were genuinely asleep. He heard her swear very softly, and felt her slowly rise from his side, clearly being careful not to “wake” him. When he heard that she was over by her bedroll, Bull cracked open his eye and saw discomfort on her face. She dressed quickly and left the tent. Bull opened his eye fully, stretched, and wondered what specifically she’d been uncomfortable with.

The next time they shared a tent, Bull was less tidy than usual and casually left one of his bags between their bedrolls, hip-height on him, knee-height on her. That way, if she rolled against him unconsciously, something would stop her if she didn’t want the closeness. If she _did_ want to snuggle and didn’t know how to ask, having the small bag there would seem incidental and not like a tacit rejection. The two of them bedded down joking about Cassandra’s appreciation of Varric’s stories and went to sleep.

Sure enough, when Bull awoke, he had a small dwarf-ball warming his side. He smiled and felt her awaken as well. While he lay still, again feigning sleep, she tensed again once she realized where she was. He felt her turn to look at his face and, apparently satisfied that she’d not awoken him, lay down her head again and sighed--not a sigh of frustration or resignation, but of happiness. She wasn’t going back to sleep; he could feel her eyelashes blinking against his arm, but she _was_ relaxing.

Okay, then. She hadn’t been uncomfortable because of Bull, or because she was touching Bull specifically. Was she cold and huddling for warmth? No, the extra blankets were within easy reach. While he pondered, the camp around them began waking and, just as silently and carefully as last time, Malika extracted herself from his side and returned to her bed to armor up.  Hmm.

Bull said nothing the next several times he and Cadash bunked together, but he did, with a hidden smile, observe that she was both inching her bedroll closer to his every night, and she was lingering longer at his side each morning, still thinking he was asleep. She never mentioned it, and always moved before he started looking awake.

One morning, still ‘asleep’, he casually moved his arm around her. She lay as still as a sighted hare while he moved, prepared to bolt if he ‘woke up’, but after he’d settled, she relaxed and even did the little butt-wiggle-shimmy thing she did when she was happy about something (it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen a dwarf do--not that he would ever tell _her_ that. Not after the skin-flaying glare Sera had gotten after she’d commented on Malika’s squeaky, tiny, adorable sneezes).

Not cold, not a mistake, he thought. Cadash liked the physical contact with him, but kept it a secret from Bull and seemed to believe that it would upset _him_ _._ An odd conclusion to draw; Bull liked to touch _everyone_ _,_ openly, as long as they also wanted to be-- Oooh . Cadash thought Bull thought _she_ didn’t want to be touched. If Bull had awoken with Cadash touching him, she might think _he_ would think it was a subtle request for something more than platonic cuddling. Of course Bull would never act on such an assumption without clarifying first, because Bull was an adult who could communicate very clearly when he wanted sex. But if he’d learned anything watching non-Qunari, it was that, as a rule, they were _terrible_ about talking about sex.

Many people interpreted Cadash’s frank disinterest in sex--a revelation that, for some, had completely overshadowed the accompanying discovery of Cassandra’s literary tastes-- as an aversion to being touched at all. Though aside from Bull and Varric, who limited his touch to hearty claps on the back, no one in the Inner Circle seemed very touchy-feely. Perhaps Cadash didn’t know that some people were sex-averse, but not _touch_ -averse in certain situations. He could work with that.

The next evening, back in the interminable Hinterlands, Bull went to ‘sleep’ before Malika. He lay still while she situated herself, only a foot away from Bull. Over the next several minutes she inched closer, and closer, and closer… until Bull finally gave up the act, chuckled, reached out his arm and hauled her the 6 inches remaining between them, holding her snug against his side. She squeaked when he hugged her to him _(_ _not adorable, Bull, it’s not adorable, don't say anything…_ _)_  and met his eye.

“Not all touching in bed is sexual, Boss,” Bull explained. “Lots of people who don’t want sex still want to be touched. If you want to snuggle with me, you can ask.”

Cadash still looked troubled. “You don’t mind?” she asked. “You know I don’t want anything else.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t want more, and I’m perfectly fine with that. And no, I don’t mind snuggling with you.” He looked down at her with a grin. “I’ve liked waking up to you here. It’s super cute.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, and he laughed. “Not helping with the cuteness, Boss! Ow! Hey!” he objected when she poked his side, hard.

She mock-scowled at him, but then smiled and snuggled closer to him. Her butt shimmy-wiggled against his torso.

“Thanks, Bull.”

“No problem, Boss.”


	7. Sera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor talks in her sleep.

 

 

 

Sera had long since decided that for a noble, Evie was the decent sort. Pretty cute, too; it was nice that the lady who was gonna fix the world was hot _and_ kind. Sera didn’t need to feel conflicted about her idle fantasies.

So, walking into the dark tent, Sera only half-considered putting a frog in Evie’s boots. With a shrug, she tossed the lucky amphibian out the tent and shuffled to her bedroll. Stripping off her  clothes, she flopped bare-assed on her cot and swore softly. Evelyn made an inquiring noise.

“‘S’nothing; I was gonna mend the rip in my drawers, but you put out the candle and I can’t be arsed to get up and light it again.”

“Keeps having bad dreams,” Evelyn said, half muffled by her pillow.

Sera snorted, “Well, y’drink for that, doncha?”

“So he keeps having these bad dreams that he’s gonna die, and no one wants that...”

Sera scowled at her. “Who’re y’talking about, Quizie-poo?”

“...so his mum goes--”

Sera sat up on the bedroll and interrupted her with a loud huff. “Who’s this? Who’s gonna die? Mages don’t have prophetic dreams, do they?”

“Baldr.”

Sera squinted in the darkness. “Who the frick is Baldy? Not Fade-Egg. He don’t have a mum,” she muttered. “Probably got farted outta a… a… elf-pod, or some elfy, Fade-y, Ar-laugh-it-up nonsense.”

“Baldr, the most beautiful and beloved of the gods,” Evelyn sighed dreamily.

Sera looked wistfully at the tentflap (so far away!) and reconsidered the frog. “Riiiiight… I’m just gonna sleep, now.”

 

*****

 

The next morning Sera woke up and peered suspiciously at Evelyn. “You still weird?”

“Huh?”

“Last night, you were talking about bad dreams and Baldy-sommat?”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow and gave Sera a _look,_ the same sort she gave the Nightingale when she got too stabby, or the Warden when he got too broody. “Sera, what the fuck are you on about?”

Sera ‘pshhed!’ and grabbed her tunic. “Nuthin’,” she scoffed, and hurried out of the tent.

“Sera, you forgot your--”

“Hey Solas! Do _real_ elves wear knickers, or do they just flit about the forest moonin’ everyone?”

 

*****

 

That night she and Evelyn met their beds at the same time, and before Sera was all the way asleep, Evelyn started talking again.

“Urgh, Evie! I’m tryin’a _sleep,”_ she groused.

“...so she gets a promise from everything--”

“Eeeee-vviiieeeeeee!"

“--not to hurt Baldr, but she forgets mistletoe and somehow Loki finds out.”

Sera huffed again and rolled to her side to face Evelyn. “You ever gonna tell me who this Baldy person is?”

“Baldr.”

“Right, whatever. What’s mis-toe?”

“Mistletoe.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a plant. Now hush, I’m telling a story.”

“Shite, is _that_ what’s happening?”

“Anyways, Loki finds out that mistletoe didn’t agree not to hurt Baldr, so he takes some and the Aesir are all throwing shit at Baldr because he’s invulnerable or whatever, and they’re throwing rocks and swords and stuff at him and there’s apparently nothing else to do on a Thursday night in Asgard.”

“Evie-beevie, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sera confessed.

“Oh…” Evelyn said vaguely.

Sera waited, but Evelyn didn’t say anything else. “Well, I didn’t mean for you to stop!” Sera objected.

Silence and stillness from the other side of the tent, except for Evelyn’s even breathing.

“So, I guess that’s all I get for tonight?” Silence. “Well, that’s rude. You’re lucky I don’t get a frog.”

 

*****

 

The _next_ morning was a frustrating repeat. “So, what, I only get five lines of a bedtime story? You’re rotten at this.”

Evelyn peered at her. “Bedtime story?”

Sera poked her. “Yeah, with mistie-toe and Baldy and the Arsie-people throwing shite at him because he’s ‘invulnerable’,” Sera over-articulated the last word.

Evelyn stared at her, narrowed her eyes for a long moment, relaxed them and looked away, then narrowed them at her again. “I can’t tell if you’re bullshitting me or not.”

Sera snickered. “Win!”

Later in the day Sera sidled up to Varric and asked, “Hey, you ever hear a story about a bloke who dreams he’s gonna die and his mum goes out and makes everything promise not to hurt him, so then their family throws things at him, because why not?”

“Sounds like Hawke after she figured out a better barrier,” the dwarf muttered. “No, Sera, I’ve never heard that one.”

They walked side by side for a bit. “Sooooo,” Varric finally asked, “what’s the punchline?”

“What punchline?”

“You said the setup--what’s next?”

“Fuck if I know! Evie-beeve hasn’t said yet--oi!” she exclaimed when Varric spun around and put out a hand to stop her.

“Wait wait wait wait,” he laughed incredulously, “the _Inquisitor_ is telling you this story?”

Sera snorted. “Not very well. She started outta the blue ere-yester-night, and then said a bit more last night and trailed off. It’s weird, though, yeah? ‘Cuz she acts like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about when I asked her about it.”

“Hmmm…” Varric mused, “Are you sure she wasn’t asleep?”

“No!” Sera scoffed. “She was talking; she can’t’ve been asleep! People snore and shut up in’er sleep. She was awake, and she's just having me on.”

Varric chuckled. “Buttercup, trust me--people talk in their sleep. They don’t know they’re doing it, but it’s possible.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not.”

“Yes, you are!”

“Do I need to separate you two?” Evelyn hollered over her shoulder, walking alongside Blackwall several paces in front of them.

“No, we’ll be right along!” Varric called back, and said more quietly to Sera, “Listen, I make up shit to put _in_ my stories, and unconscious confessions are good drama material, but it really happens. Sounds like the Inquisitor is sleep-talking and telling you a story. Hey!” he clapped her shoulder. “Let me know what happens next, okay?”

She thought a moment. “Why doncha take first watch and hang out by our tent instead?”

 

*****

 

Sera yawned expansively and flopped naked on the bedroll. “Gosh, I’m _soooo tired!”_ she complained, looking directly at Evelyn. “You tired?”

Evelyn raised another stern-ish eyebrow, but she was smiling. Sera’s casual in-tent nudity flustered her at first, but these days she didn’t give it any thought. She did nod at Sera’s posterior, though. “You have a bruise on your ass.”

“Oooh! Does it look like anythin’?” Sera peered around, looking. “Wait, where? Is it the other cheek?” She turned the other way.

“Made you look.”

“Oh, nice one,” Sera said sarcastically as Evelyn blew out the candle. “I can hear you smirking, y’know.”

“Goodnight, Sera.”

Sera lay still for a few minutes and waited. Soon enough, Evelyn stirred and started talking.

“...So they’re all throwing things at Baldr, and it’s great fun. But Loki--”

Sera spoke before she could stop herself, “Who’s Loki?”

“Trickster, god of mischief, helps bring about the end of the world. Anyways, he hears that Frigg didn’t get the promise from mistletoe, so he takes a piece of it and gives it to his blind brother, Hodr. He’s not taking part in the throwing-things-at-Baldr because Hodr is blind, but Loki convinces him to try, says he’ll aim him right, so--”

“Wait, so ‘e just _believes_ the trickster-mischief god? What kind of daft idiot wouldn't know that was a shite idea? I mean, why do they even let Loki hang around? Don’t they know he’s gonna end the world?”

“He just does,” Evelyn explained. “Hodr takes the mistletoe and throws it and it hits Baldr and he falls down dead.”

“Frick-a-dick! How big a plant was it?!”

“Dammit, Buttercup! Stop interrupting the story!” Varric hissed from the other side of the canvas.

“Piss off; like _you_ don’t want to know, too!” she hissed back.

Evelyn seemed not to notice her second listener. “It doesn’t matter, Baldr is dead and everyone’s really sad, except for Loki, who’s fucked off somewhere…”

 

*****

 

Back at Skyhold…

 

“Oi! Chest-hair! You got it?”

“Yes, I have chest hair.”

“S’not what I meant.” Sera stuck out her tongue at him.

Varric grinned and showed her what he was carrying. “See? I got plenty. Did you do your part?”

Sera nods proudly. “Yep! Got Nightingale’s ravens in her boudoir and she’s bunking with me tonight. Lace! C’mon,” she gestured at the scout and led them up to the second story of the Herald’s rest.

“I brought mead!,” Lace whispered. “I hope that’s-ooh, Varric! Is that--”

“Yes, and I brought enough to share.”

“You better’ve,” Sera whispered pointedly. “Is everyone caught up? Yeah? Good--waitaminnit, what’s _he_ doing here?” Sera stopped at the threshold of her room and pointed accusingly at Cole, who was inoffensively perched on the windowsill at Evelyn’s feet.

“Her feet were cold, but the cat didn’t want to be here,” he said. “I put a blanket there instead,” he said uncertainly, looking at Varric for reassurance.

“Good job, Kid. Sheesh, Buttercup, do you have enough pillows in here?”

“Never!” Sera exclaimed softly.

“No such thing!” Lace whispered at the same time.

Sera snickered and winked at her. “I knew I liked you!”

Evelyn sighed, clearly asleep.

“Is it starting?”

“Shhh! C’mon, give it!”

With an exaggerated sigh, Varric sat next to Sera and passed the bowl of popcorn to her. Lace deftly and silently uncorked the mead on Sera’s other side, took a sip and passed it.

“Right, so, everyone was at Baldr’s funeral, because everyone loved him.”

Sera loudly whispered to Lace, “‘Cuz he was the best and brightest and most beloved of them.”

“That’s right. And the funeral was a really big deal--they put Baldr’s body in a big ship, and his wife Nanna dies of grief, conveniently next to the big boat, so they put her on the boat with him.”

“She only lived to die. Baldr’s bane brought Baldr low. The wolf’s father fooled him, and no one said why but it will bring about the twilight of the gods, the end of the world, but the world will turn to a new golden age, like the one before,” Cole murmured solemnly. “Briefly Baldr’s widow, she’ll live to die at Frigg’s first sorrow again and again.”

“But the boat was so big and heavy, they couldn’t push the boat into the sea…”

“Wow! I want to be buried in a ship!” Lace said quietly.

“Probably as far from the Stone as you could get,” Varric agreed.

“So they get a giant, and she rides in on a wolf, and she’s using poisonous serpents as reins,” Evelyn continued, “and she’s stronger than anyone, so she shoves the boat off and leaves. But Thor’s mad because a giant could do what he couldn’t, so he kicks a dwarf into the boat and they light it on fire.”

“What?!”

“No way!”

“I did not see that coming.”

“The one who makes giantesses weep was the protector of mankind, but the _edda_ says nothing of dwarves. The lord of goats tricked Alviss, who turned to stone.” Cole turned to Varric and Lace. “But Varric, I’ve seen you in the sun, and you don’t turn to stone.”

“Stop it, Creepy! You’ll spoil the story!” Sera threw a piece of popcorn at him.

“But it was all Loki’s fault, right?” Lace asked. “So what happened to Loki?”

The four of them looked expectantly at their sleeping Inquisitor, who said...nothing.

Lace and Varric sighed with disappointment. Sera threw popcorn in the air and caught it in her mouth.

“I think storytime is over,” suggested Cole. “There are more stories, but they’re asleep, too.”

The other three looked at Cole, then at each other.

“Same time tomorrow, then?” Lace proposed.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Scout.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know what kind of Thedasian story to tell, so this one is straight from Norse Mythology, which I’m teaching this semester. Also, once I realized it would be a chance to put Norse kennings in Cole’s mouth, I was done for. I have not deviated from the source material. The dwarf’s name is Litt.


	8. Varric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's good at dealing with the unexpected hands life deals out.

 

“It’s indecent, is what it is!” Dorian exclaimed indignantly.

Varric chuckled. “Better luck next time, Sparkler!” he called over his shoulder, pocketing his winnings. They played Diamondback in the field so infrequently that Dorian, apparently, forgot how terrible he was at it. No matter; doubtless the Iron Bull would, ah... soothe any ruffled feathers.  

He pulled back the flap of the tent he shared with Kaaras and stifled a laugh. Kaaras was stripped to his breeches, sprawled spread-eagled over both his own bedroll _and_ Varric’s. Varric took off his boots and considered the situation. With a rueful smile, he gently pushed at Kaaras’ arm.

If he were a more insecure dwarf, he might have felt badly at how ineffective his shoving was. Kaaras, dead to the world, was both unmoved and unmovable. Varric decided to cut his losses and wrestled most of himself into his bedroll, using Adaar’s forearm as a pillow (his own pillow having been appropriated as a secondary horn rest) and started to doze, imagining how to incorporate Kaaras’ expansive sleep-flop into his book.

Not much time had passed when Varric found himself suddenly grabbed and dragged over to Kaaras’ side.

He looked around, alarmed, for whatever danger the Inquisitor had pulled him away from. Shit, why hadn’t he put Bianca closer? He couldn’t reach her now. Tense, he looked around--

\--and found only the clean, safe inside of the tent. No danger, no un-stealthed ruffian, not even a _lizard_ , so what--wait. Was Adaar _cuddling_ him?

Maker's curly chest-hair!

Sure enough, Kaaras, still lying mostly on his front, had gathered up Varric and held him close to his side like a child with plush nug. One part of Varric’s mind bristled at the indignity, but another part wondered if there would be a market for dwarf-sized stuffies among Tal-Vashoth in Thedas. Yet another part of him had to admit that it was a great deal warmer right next to his friend.

Still, though--how was a dwarf supposed to get his beauty sleep when he couldn’t move?

Varric laboriously wiggled an arm free of Kaaras’ unconscious embrace. Between pants he whispered, “Adaar!” No response. Varric spoke in his normal volume. “Adaar. Kaaras!” No acknowledgement but a sleepy sigh.

Finally Varric made a fist and punched Kaaras in the side. “Inquizie-poo! Herald Horny! Ox-breath! Wake up!” he insisted in a harsh whisper.

Kaaras cuddled Varric closer and slurred, “Five m’re m’nutes, Ama.”

Varric blinked a few times, and let his head drop back. At least he had a proper pillow now, or a corner of one. He favored Kaaras with a (tragically unappreciated) raised eyebrow and sighed gustily.

“ _Cuddled by the Qunari: A Tale of the Inquisition_...” He shook his head. “I’d write it, but no one would believe it.”

 

 


	9. Josephine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memorizing Orlesian manners in preparation for Halamshiral was terribly boring.

 

_Josephine’s PoV_

 

“...and of course, the Visage-de-Pets have been in the petit-fors trade for generations, something the Petit Boulettes have never forgiven them for. Now, Inquisitor, what is on the coat of arms of the Lapin-colère?”

Oh, dear. Adaar looked as lost as he had when she’d told him that there were twelve forks in an Imperial Orlesian table setting.  He scratched behind one of his black horns and guessed, “Uuuhh… the Nuggalope triumphant with bees in the background?”

By the grace of years of practice, she hid her wince, took a calming breath, and corrected, “That is the heraldry for the Danseur-triste family, Inquisitor.” Maker. At least Adaar was still awake. Plainly the late evenings of lessons were wearing on him.

“Josephine, do I really need to know the heraldry?” Adaar asked plaintively. “You said all that pagentry would be before our arrival, and that they’d all be introducing themselves anyways, since no one would expect ‘an ox’ to remember things like this, and we were going to play up that angle.”

“Yes, Inquisitor, but for us to ‘play up’ your unfamiliarity with Orlesian customs, you must actually know them!” she argued, some exasperation coloring her voice. She immediately regretted it, as he slumped even further down into his chair, his crooked nose almost even with the table before him. Oh, dear.

The incongruity of the giant man dejectedly slouching in a too-small chair like a scolded child would have been humorous, if Josephine hadn’t been so distracted with worry and guilt. Events were moving very quickly, and she’d been trying to prepare him as much as she could, resulting in hours of lessons (not including his dancing practice with Vivienne). “I suppose you’re right; you don’t need to know all the heraldry,” she allowed, silently praying that they would not regret it.

Relief burst from Adaar in a heartfelt sigh and he righted himself in his chair. “Thank the Maker.”

Josephine started to smile but instead gasped in horror as something else occurred to her. “The fan and handkerchief code!! Oh! I must teach you--” she exclaimed, turning back to the blackboard and drawing frenetically.

So caught up was she in her drawing and explanation that she didn’t notice that Adaar had nodded off. She also neglected to notice Sera sneaking under the table.

 

***

_Sera PoV_

 

Three days. _Three days_ in a room together, talking about fancy-pants shite, and they still hadn’t snogged, much less whatever fancy-pants nobles did when they fancy-pantsied each other.

Ballocks with this. Time for some mayhem.

The prank she'd planned for was good (honey in the shoes was almost as good as no breeches!), but once she saw that Kaaras had actually fallen _asleep_ , she got a much better one. She crawled under the table on hands and knees and knelt between Kaaras’ relaxed legs. She made a disgusted face, even though no one could see it. No way she’d go this near boy-bits for anything other than a truly epic prank. Her nimble fingers worked quickly to untie the codpiece section of his rogue armor, and she tied the ends of the leather laces securely to the leg of the massive table he sat at.

She backed out from under the table, verified that Josephine was still looking away (she hadn’t noticed her _or_ that Karras was snoozing; maybe she could--no, Sera! Focus! Focus on the epic prank at hand!), and moved the pitcher of water on the table so that it balanced precariously close to the edge.

Then she silently jumped up onto the windowsill to watch, biting her lips to keep the giggles in.

Several minutes passed, during which Josephine hadn’t turned around, Kaaras hadn’t woken up, and nothing interesting had happened. Sera scowled and pulled a copper piece out of her leggings. She took a moment to consider the angles and tossed the coin so it rang loudly on the rim of the metal pitcher.

Kaaras startled awake with a snort. Josephine whirled around and dropped her chalk. Sera grinned.

 

***

_Kaaras PoV_

 

He jerked awake at the loud “ting!” to his right, and his leg knocked hard against the table, which made the pitcher of water (hadn’t he put it in the middle of the table?) fall off with a loud splash and crash.

There was a moment of surprised stillness, during which the only sound was the metallic ringing of the spinning pitcher on the floor. Then Josephine moved as though to pick it up, but Kaaras stood faster, waving her away, when he felt a tug from his pants and a sudden...difference. Felt...somewhat less support than just previously. He heard a dull thump, like a piece of leather armor hitting the carpeted floor. It rolled into his view--his codpiece.

There was complete and utter silence in the room. Josephine looked at him, wide-eyed. He looked desperately at her, as though if he maintained eye contact, she would be unable to look down.

This was _not_ how he wanted to be gazing intensely into Josephine’s eyes. What kind of addle-brained potential suitor was he? How could he possibly impress her if he was losing bits and pieces of his armor? She certainly wouldn’t want to spend time with someone too incompetent to lace their pants properly! But wait, of course he’d laced them right! He hardly ever unlaced this part of the ar--

Wait.

Ashes of Andraste.

Kaaras could not remember if he’d put on smalls that morning.

Oh, _Maker._

If his bits were flapping about at Josie, he’d _die_ of mortification. He’d jump off Cullen’s tower. He’d walk into the southeastern Hinterlands without armor. He’d open a rift and jump in singing that song about Andraste’s mabari.

Josephine’s eyes were still locked on his, and she licked her lips and tried to say something, but all that emerged was a squeak. Maker, she was adorable--no, Kaaras! This was serious!

He heard a strange, muffled, snorting sound, and looked out of the corner of his eye to see--yep. That was Sera, apparently unable to contain her mirth. She barked out a huge guffaw and laughed so hard that she fell off of the windowsill she had been perched on. Josephine turned her flaming face to the hysterical elf and Kaaras took advantage of her distraction to reach down and oh! Thank the Maker; he was wearing smalls. He sighed with relief and turned to go to Sera and give her a piece of his mind, but didn’t get very far before he felt another tug at his pants and the grating groan of heavy furniture moving an inch.

Kaaras stared, utterly non-plussed. Apparently he was tied to the table. Of course he was.

Sera was still on the floor, gasping between big shouts of laughter.

Josephine was looking from him to Sera to his codpiece, forlorn and alone on the floor, and back to Sera.

Maker only knew how long they stood (or rolled on the floor, in Sera’s case, because she was _still_ laughing) there before Blackwall came in without knocking and exclaimed, “Sera! There you are! What are you laughing about? Adaar isn’t _that_ hopeless at court stuff, not like you--er, _we_ could tell anyways…”  He trailed off, taking in the scene with his jaw slack and eyebrows slowly rising. “Oh, bloody _hell!”_ he swore emphatically. He hurried to Sera’s side, picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, fleeing the scene.

Bouncing on his shoulder, Sera yelled, “Just kiss already, you two nob-heads!”

Alone in the room again, Josephine and Kaaras looked wide-eyed at each other.

 

***

_Scene change to the Herald’s Rest_

 

“...so no shit, there they were, looking at each other, pink as sunburnt nugs,” Varric narrated, gesturing expansively, “and two, three times they each start to say something, and they do the ‘Oh, no, go ahead,’ ‘Oh, no, please…’ ‘Oh, but I insist!’ dance.” He paused to take a sip of his ale. “Kaaras finally stammered out an apology, and Ruffles accepted it as graciously as you would expect. Then they paused and stared at each other a while longer, and then, ha!” he slapped his knee with glee. “Then, Ruffles helpfully suggested that Harritt or Dagna could maybe, heh, ‘ _S_ _ee about improving the design of your armor’_ and--hey!”

Varric swatted at Bull, who was snickering into his drink next to Sera. “Sorry, Varric.”

 _“Anyways,_ they’re still staring and standing and I’m about to go in there and put Kaaras out of his misery when he says, charming as you please,” Varric stood up on his bench and mimed a florid bow. “‘ _My Lady Montilyet, would you dine with me tonight?’_ ”  

“No!” exclaimed Dorian, his eyes wide, helping himself to a handful of Blackwall’s popcorn.

The Warden scowled through his beard and elbowed Dorian in the ribs. “Hey, get yer own!”

“Ooohoho, yes!” Varric confirmed with a grin, seating himself again. “And that’s why Ma’am and Nightingale and Curly and Seeker are guarding the entrances to the Chantry courtyard, to make sure they’re not--A _hem,”_ he coughed, giving Bull a significant look.

Bull reached out without looking and grabbed Sera’s ankle, preventing her escape for further mayhem by picking her up and plopping her in his good knee.  “Here, Sera, have a cookie.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” She crammed a cookie into her mouth.

“So, you think they’re good for each other?” Blackwall asked.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be all chaste kisses and courtly bowing and sidelong glances and love-struck sighs for months…” Varric predicted.

“Maker! Not _that,"_  Dorian complained through a mouthful of popcorn, rolling his eyes expressively.

“Hey now,” Bull objected. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of romance.”

“A _bit,_ sure, but they’ve been pining for months--”

“Has it really been that long?”

“...whole _forests_ of pining--”

“Bet they kiss in a week.”

“What?!” everyone exclaimed, looking at Sera in disbelief.

Sera crammed a sixth cookie into her mouth and meaningfully slapped a silver coin on the table. “I bet ALL of you, that Josie kisses Inkie within the week, and that she shows ‘im how many ruffles are on her nightie within the month.”

The table was silent for a long moment.

Bull finally asked, “Wait, how do you know what Josephine sleeps in?”

“Got drunk with her and Cassie.”

“Well, how many ruffles does Ruffles wear?” Varric asked, reaching for his paper and ink.

“Not tellin’,” Sera sniffed. “She tried to give me one of them frilly nightgowns. I said no; I said, ‘what’s the difference between sleeping and napping if you can’t be starkers when you’re sleeping?’”

Dorian choked. Blackwall smacked the mage’s back with a resounding thump. Dorian squawked and then glared indignantly at Blackwall, who placidly reclaimed his popcorn.

Sera giggled. “Yeah, Cassie snorted wine outta ‘er nose.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> je ne parle pas beaucoup de francais.
> 
> One of my friends helped me with the prank Sera pulls, but for the life of me I cannot remember if it was Jack or Hollie because I am a terrible friend.


	10. Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen sees his sister in the Inquisitor.

 

Every pulse of blood through Cullen’s body throbbed painfully in his head, dismal drumbeats dragging him down. It should be terrible, his own heartbeat punishing him for living, but instead the familiarity was...not comforting, but expected. He had escaped, undeserving, from the jaws of death again. Cullen’s heart _should_ hurt. The mistake of his continued existence, when he’d failed to save so, so many… it was fitting that every heartbeat hurt.

He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it for a different sensation. At least Lavellan had survived-- she deserved that miracle more than he did. Unaccountably, Ellana Lavellan reminded him of Mia, even though she didn’t particularly look like Mia had the last time Cullen had seen his sister. Perhaps it was a combination of Lavellan’s youth and good-natured mischief; she was different from Cullen in the same way he remembered Mia being different, before he left for the Templars. _“Always serious!”_ she’d chide him, trying to involve him in something silly. He’d always refuse, consumed by his desire to become a Templar and convinced that if he acted adult enough, they’d see his worth.

Now he would have given _anything_ to go back and filch spoonfuls of berry sauce from their mother’s kitchen. He’d frozen in the Haven Chantry when she volunteered for the suicide mission to bury Haven and buy them time to escape, seeing Mia in her place. Only his feelings of responsibility for Haven’s civilians and Cassandra’s assurance that Lavellan wouldn’t fight alone had kept him from refusing.

He tugged hard at his hair again and straightened with a pained groan. Perhaps a walk outside, out of this cramped, ramshackle ‘office’, would be worthwhile.

Cullen had reluctantly authorized a skeleton watch for one night so that more people could recover from their flight to Skyhold and the frantic first two days in the half-ruined fortress. The battlements, therefore, were largely deserted, and he could only see two scouts posting watch, wrapped in oilcloth and gazing steadfastly through the driving rain. A flash of lightning illuminated a few more in their assigned places.

The cold rain helped, beating a different tattoo on his pounding head, distracting from the punishing throb of his heavy heart. He looked through the rain to the main hall, the water-slick exterior of the rotunda, then left to the Inquisitor’s tower where they’d given Lavellan the best room they could find--inadequate, but better than nothing.

A succession of lightning strikes illuminated something that made Cullen’s heart stop in terror--a slim figure balancing precariously on the rail of the high stone balcony, swaying in the buffeting winds. Maker! _Lavellan!_

Quicker than thought, he ran across the yard and up the stairs into the Great Hall. The door to Lavellan’s apartment was latched but Cullen’s momentum and the weight of his armor broke the old door off its hinges and he raced on and up the stairs, barely slowing to open the last door to her quarters. He ran, skidding on puddles the rain and wind had made on the smooth stone floors. He looked around in a panic, but didn’t see her. Wait--was that a voice on the far balcony?

Yes, there she was, her bare feet clinging somehow to the wet stone, clothes stuck to her like a second skin, eyes closed, eyebrows contorted in distress, mouth moving but with the rain and wind he couldn’t make out her words.

“Herald!” he yelled. “Ellana!” Maker, if she fell! He moved quickly, aware of the slick surface beneath his boots. She didn’t seem to have heard him, so he called out again as he carefully approached, “Ellana! Get down from there!”

She didn’t respond, at least, not to him. A night terror? Andraste’s ashes, he should have thought of that! Why hadn’t they given her a room on the ground level?

Ellana threw up her hands at a foe only she could see and took hasty steps backwards. Cullen shot forward, anticipating the slide of water under his boots. As he slid past her he caught her around the middle with his right arm and, before his momentum could carry him over the other side, kicked against the stone balustrade, launching them into the safety of the room. Cullen twisted mid-fall to land on his armored back, with Lavellan safely on top of him.

Gasping with relief, he let his head fall back to the cold, stone floor but looked up quickly when Lavellan struggled in his tight grip.

“Fen’harel take you!” she spat.

“Ellana! Wake up!” Cullen rolled to his side and shook her twice, hard.

Her eyes opened, but she clearly didn’t see him. “I--the beacon; I have to stall him until the beacon--”

He squeezed her arms and caught her eyes--not hazel like Mia’s, but terrified and disoriented, demanding that he do _something_ to help. Holding her gaze, he said very clearly, “You _did,_ Ellana! You stalled Corypheus until we got to safety! You _saved_ us!”

She stared unblinking at him and stopped struggling.

“And then you saved _yourself_ and followed us, and you and Solas found this big, Maker-sent,” he paused, seeing her shiver, “drafty old fortress.” He rolled to his feet, taking her with him. Gently but firmly, he herded her over to the other side of the room, grabbing a dry towel on the way and wrapping her up in it. “Can you stand?” he asked her.

She nodded.

Cullen made himself smile and said, “Good. I’m going to shut the doors, and then I’ll come back here.” As he turned from her, he finally noticed how badly his hands were shaking.

Once the violence of the storm was closed off to a dull roar, kept back by locked doors, he returned to her side. She wasn’t shivering as much, but she also wouldn’t look at him. He frowned and asked, “Have you dreamed about Haven before?”

She shook her head.

He took a deep breath. “That’s normal. After a… a shock, or a trauma, sometimes it takes a while for our minds to catch up. I’m afraid you--”

“Haven’t slept.”

He stared at her. “What?” How had she not slept? Why hadn’t someone been taking care of--why hadn’t _he_ noticed?

“I haven’t slept. Too much to do, had to keep the survivors alive, because I couldn’t save--” her words tripped over each other and he clasped her shoulders again, squeezing to get her attention.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” he insisted. “You remember what you told Leliana; you can’t--”

She interrupted him, meeting his gaze for the first time. “You do.”

“I--what?” His hands fell from her damp shoulders.

“You blame yourself. You were awake. You’ve _been_ awake, for how long?” she accused, her Dalish accent rising. “At least as long as I have. And I had a couple of hours of unconsciousness, after I caught up with you all.”

“I…” Cullen blinked, and looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. She wasn’t wrong. “I am not someone who you should look to as an example, Herald.”

She snorted indelicately, which startled him into looking up at her and seeing the bitter twist of her lips. “Me, neither, but you and Cassandra gave me this big fuck-off sword--”

“No, you can’t give it back,” he interrupted her, mock-sternly.  She smiled for real--that was it. She had Mia’s smile.

They stood there a moment, looking toward each other but at nothing. Cullen saw the corner of the damp towel start to slip from her shoulder and couldn’t keep himself from reaching out and righting it. She shivered and he pressed his lips together in disapproval, getting a dry blanket and replacing the wet towel around her shoulders with its warmth. He encouragingly squeezed her shoulder again, intending to leave when she confessed in a whisper, “I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

Cullen froze. He was at Kinloch _(i’m afraid to go to sleep_ he said to Hadley in the magic-wrought prison surrounded by abominations, demons, and the blood-drained corpses of his friends and comrades). He was at Greenfell _(_ _i’m afraid to go to sleep_ he said to Mother Gretta between nightmares, tangled in sheets cold and clammy with sweat). He was at the Gallows _(_ _i’m afraid to go to sleep_ he said to Carver when they spoke in hushed whispers under their shared blankets).

He was twelve years old the night after raiders had come closer to Honnleath than ever before, almost taking horses from their barn late one night when Mia had fallen asleep hand-feeding kittens in the hayloft above _(i’m not afraid!_ she insisted, while adamantly refusing to leave his bed for her own)--

No. He was _here._ He could help her. “Herald, I--”

“Ellana, for the Creator’s love!” she exclaimed in exasperation.

“Ellana, I don’t mean to be forward, but…” he paused and swallowed the lump of vulnerability caught in his throat. “I know how you feel, and I can tell you how… how I have been helped in the past, how my friends, my-- “ By an exertion of will he forced his hand back to his side and blurted, “It helped when I wasn’t alone. Wasn’t sleeping, by myself.”

She blinked at him, and he couldn’t interpret her expression.

“Just sleep, I mean. Of course. And if you started sleepwalking again, I’d be closer, you know, to…”

“To keep me from falling to my death, yes,” she finished his sentence thoughtfully. “You would stay?”

“Or I could get someone else; I’m sure anyone--”

“No! I mean,” she stopped and ran a hand through her half-dry hair. “Yes. Please stay. But only if you try to sleep, also.”

He paused, reluctant.

“And none of that idiotic, chivalrous ‘I’ll take the chair’ shem-shit; you and I both know neither of us wants any funny business, and if it helps shut up the Chantry mother in your head, you can sleep _over_ the covers,” she continued with rolled eyes.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Not all Templars are blushing prudes,” he informed her, “but I accept your terms.”

And so she went to the closet to change into dry clothes, and he took off his boots, and they lay down together, side by side. Though they both woke up during the rest of the night, once they turned and saw that they were not alone, they were able to fall back asleep unpursued by nightmares.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I showed a good relationship between Cullen and Lavellan. I didn't want to imply any pre-romance between them, but as an only child I don't really grok healthy, mutually protective sibling relationships? Mostly I hope Cullen doesn't come across as creepy. Please tell me if he does, and how I can fix it!
> 
> In this headcanon, Cullen and Carver Hawke were together in Kirkwall, lost touch after everything went to shit, but Carver is leading a group of uncorrupted Templars to Skyhold and he and Cullen will have a joyous reunion!


	11. Blackwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall doesn't understand why Trevelyan ignores him.

 

Blackwall sighed and lifted his head toward the sun, letting its warmth soothe his freshly-scrubbed face. He had finger-combed the worst of the stinking, sticky mess out of his beard, but further cleaning would have to wait until he could soak the bottom half of his face in a bucket. He wondered if Trevelyan had the same difficulties with his own admirable beard, and half-turned toward the Inquisitor to ask before remembering himself.

In the month since he’d officially joined the Inquisition, he’d gotten the strangest mixed signals from Trevelyan. Whenever he approached Blackwall, the Marcher was friendly and professional, and a damned sight more pleasant to deal with than Blackwall had expected. However, any time Blackwall approached Trevelyan by himself in camp to strike up a conversation, Trevelyan would ignore Blackwall with even less subtlety than the most stuck-up inbred Orlesian fop. It was like he was a junior soldier again, having to bow and scrape and simper for the slightest acknowledgement from the idiots who had more power than sense, having to kiss up to they who had no regard for the men who fought and died for them. It was the kind of behavior and disregard he had always resented, the endless and thankless contempt and corruption that drove men to--

_ “...to grown Maker-damned inconvenient beards, that’s what,” _ he thought, digging through half-matted hair to scratch his chin.

Blackwall had watched Trevelyan with his other companions and, except for some awkward fumbling when he was ambushed by Leliana, he didn’t treat anyone else the way he, well, ignored Blackwall. Even greetings that Blackwall would have expected from children--flashy and noisy and over-familiar, often with an informal clap on the shoulder or frankly inappropriate poke in the gut (alright, that was mostly Sera)-- were met with a friendly smile. If Blackwall approached  _ after _ someone else had spoken to Trevelyan, there wasn’t a problem. Only when Backwall approached Trevelyan first was he ignored. 

It was damned peculiar. 

He sat on a stump with a groan and began cleaning his sword. He looked up and watched as the cheerful dwarven scout leader and Sera approached Trevelyan, who was standing with his back against a tree, gazing at something in the middle distance.

“Herald? I have… um…” the dwarf faltered when Trevelyan gave no response.

Blackwall felt his brow furrow.  _ He  _ could handle Trevelyan’s rudeness, even if he had no idea where it came from, but to ignore his preeminent scout? And such a sweet lass, as well? 

“Herald Trevelyan?” the scout began again, looking in confusion to Sera, who was absorbed in picking something out of a muffin. 

“Whatsit? Oh, Hardy, no. That’s won’t work. You have to wake ‘im up first, yeah?” Sera gave Hardy--Harding! That was her name--the mutilated pastry, rolled her right shoulder and walloped Trevelyan a great big slap on his ass. “Wake up, fancy-breeches!”

The smack of Sera’s hand hitting Trevelyan’s bottom was as loud as the Herald’s yelp of alarm, which set a nearby herd of halla scattering. While he rubbed his backside with one hand and covered a yawn with the other, Sera turned back to a shocked Scout Harding and explained, “See? Leave ‘im alone for half a minute and he goes right asleep.” She shook out her right hand. “Bugger  _ all, _ Herald-thingy! What’s your arse made of, sodding everite?”

He smirked at her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he leered, laughing at her disgusted noise. “My sincerest apologies, Scout Harding. You were saying?”

Blackwall tuned out their conversation, but couldn’t stop staring in amazement at Trevelyan. He became aware of Dorian sitting at his side. “He can sleep standing up? With his eyes open?” Blackwall asked him, not looking away from the Herald.

“Apparently, yes,” Dorian huffed. “I’m dreadfully jealous. If I’d had the ability to sleep while pretending to listen to my father’s disappointed and sanctimonious lectures, I’d have had more energy to go out and actually  _ earn  _ them.”

Blackwall nodded in absent agreement and confessed, “I thought he was ignoring me.”

“Ignoring you? Our dear Herald? No, he would never,” Dorian shook his head. Then, with a sly grin and a wink, he said, “Besides, no one  _ could  _ ignore the wonder of nature growing on your face, Warden. Tell me, is such facial shrubbery an advantage in fighting darkspawn?”

Blackwall growled as he was expected to, and Dorian ended the familiar exchange with a chuckle.

***

That evening at supper Blackwall sat next to Trevelyan and asked, “So, what’s the best way to get your attention when you only  _ look  _ like you’re awake?”

Trevelyan ducked his head and scratched the back of his head, sheepish. “Most people go for a pat on the shoulder, but as long as it’s not a bucket of cold water, it doesn’t much matter to me. Though Sera certainly had a novel approach this afternoon!” he laughed, shifting to ruefully rub his bottom. “I’m not sure who that hurt more, to be honest.”

Blackwall chuckled. “If I ever feel compelled to go that route, I’ll be sure to wear gauntlets,” he said.

“Maker!” Trevelyan exclaimed with a crooked smile. “I don’t know whether I want that to be a threat or a promise, Warden!”

Blackwall snorted, then remembered his earlier question. “Hey, speaking of buckets…”

 

 

 


	12. Lace Harding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lace comforts a very concerned new scout.

 

Scout Lace Harding smiled to meet the new day, genuinely happy to hear birdsong on the Exalted Plains. Actually, the freeness of her smile may have had more to do with the fact that the Inquisitor and his companions had finally arrived, and had the leisure to go dragon-hunting. Their camp here was well-enough established that being on duty here was rather pleasant.

As soon as she emerged from her tent, however, she heard someone shouting her name.

“Scout Harding! Scout Harding!” A human man in scout’s gear was running towards her. His short, brown hair had a suspicious amount of...floof...for someone who should have been wearing a helmet, and he was visibly tense. Lace looked discreetly around the otherwise placid camp while he approached her. 

“Good morning, scout!” she greeted him cheerfully. “What’s new?”

“Scout Harding!” he said between gasps. “I need to report!”

Ah, someone transferred from Skyhold and still unaware that the scouts did things a bit more casually--no less diligently, just without the salutes and official-ness. Lace added some patience and sympathy to her smile. “Well, the camp’s not on fire,” she observed, “so it can’t be too great an emergency, can it?” He did not look reassured. Lace adopted a more official tone. “Relax, Scout. Catch your breath and tell me what happened.”

He took in some deep gulps of air, but his posture remained anxious and...guilty? “I was standing watch last night, Sir--er, I mean, Ma-am, er--”

“My name is Lace,” she reminded him. 

He looked scandalized. Must have been one of Cullen’s men. “Uh,” he stammered inelegantly, “Scout Harding, um. I was standing watch last night, and several times I heard the most terrible sound, like some giant beast growling! I thought the noise was coming from close to camp, but I walked the perimeter--I never left my post, technically!” he insisted. “But I didn’t see anything in camp, or anything just outside.”

Lace frowned, but nodded for him to continue.

“As soon as I got closer to the sound, it would stop! And there’d be quiet for a half hour or so. But then out of nowhere, it would start roaring again! This terribly loud, growling sound--far bigger than a wolf, even a--” he gasped. Fear plain in his eyes, he hunched closer to her, looking over his shoulder suspiciously. “You don’t have them…  _ Great Bears _ ...here, do you?”

Lace was very confused. “No, we don’t have bears here. What was the sound, again?” She saw Varric exiting his tent out of the corner of her eye.

“It was a loud, gravelly sort-of roar or growl, coming at regular intervals. It must have been some terrible beast!” Varric looked at them, shamelessly eavesdropping. The agitated scout ran a sweaty hand through his hair which, somehow, became even more poofy and continued, “I don’t know what else could have made such a noise, but Maker take me, I couldn’t  _ see _ anything!”

Lace narrowed her eyes, a suspicion forming in her mind. “You’re...new to scouting for the Inquisition, aren’t you?” Varric snickered audibly.

He frowned at Varric. “Well, yes, but--”

She interrupted him, “Scout, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Jim?”

“And when was the last time you heard the sound?”

“About 5 minutes before you came out of your tent. Please, Scout Harding! I couldn’t see anything dangerous! But if there’s a new threat, some new beast or monster, don’t you think we should tell the Inquisitor?” he asked the last part in a whisper. 

Lace looked at him pityingly. “No, we don’t need to inform the Inquisitor.” Varric burst out laughing, and she glared at him. 

“What?!” he exclaimed, clearly confused by her refusal and Varric’s amusement. “But--”

“Scout Jim, we don’t need to  _ tell _ the Inquisitor because that sound  _ was _ the Inquisitor.” She looked pointedly at the Inquisitor’s tent, and he turned his head to follow.

Sure enough, Kaaras stumbled through the tent flap, scratching and yawning. Solas followed him, albeit with greater dignity. While Kaaras stretched and walked to the fire, Solas shook his pale head and walked to Varric, conspicuously taking out wads of cotton from his ears. He said to Varric, “Thank you. May I keep these?”

“By all means, Chuckles.”

Scout Jim’s jaw was slack and his eyes were comically wide. He stood there, silently gaping, until Lace slapped him on the back and said, “You’ll be fine, Scout Jim.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who came up with Scout Jim, anyways? Who named him? Where did he come from?


	13. The Chargers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's just say that Cadash is buying drinks for a loooong time...

 

Dorian theatrically stomped down to the practice field and sighed loudly enough that Varric, still yards away, looked up from Bianca and said with mock-sympathy, “Aww, Sparkler. What’s the matter, not enough beauty-sleep?” Smirking at Dorian’s glare he quickly amended, “Not that you need it, of course!” 

Somewhat mollified, Dorian answered, “Barely enough, but Bull promised that group sparring would be worth my while.” Dorian looked around. “Where  _ is _ he? I was certain I was fashionably late.”

Varric smirked again. “You just like it when he growls at you.” When Dorian didn’t deign to respond, Varric said, “I don’t know where Tiny is. Think we should look?”

At that moment they heard a roar--and honest-to-the-Maker roar--that eventually morphed into Bull’s familiar laughter. Varric and Dorian looked at each other and followed the noise down to the infirmary. 

The laughter carried on, undiminished in volume and mirth, until Dorian felt a pinch of concern. They slowed at they approached the infirmary door and the laughter petered off, as though Bull had finally run out of breath. In the silence that followed Dorian and Varric exchanged another glance, one full of trepidation, and Dorian reached to open the door and--

“AAAAAAA-HAAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAAAAAA!”

Varric snorted at Dorian’s squeak of alarm, and Dorian hissed at him, “Not a  _ word, _ dwarf!” He pulled open the door and took in the scene before them. 

Bull was flat on his back, laughing uproariously, and would have been rolling back and forth if his horns had allowed it. Behind him, seated sullenly on a row of stools, were the Chargers and Cadash, each one of them sporting a spectacular black eye. Dalish, at one end of the sorry line, had a bandaged hand as well. The seven of them glared with their remaining good eyes at Bull, who  _ still _ hadn’t stopped laughing. 

Once again, Dorian and Varric exchanged a glance, and Dorian made a florid ‘after you’ gesture. Varric cleared his throat and said, “Ok, there is  _ definitely  _ a story here, and we’re not leaving until we hear it.”

Bull tried to speak. “It--It--They--” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eye. He took several quick and deep breaths and rolled to a seated position on the floor, seeming to calm only to burst back into laughter when he saw the Chargers glaring balefully at him. 

“Oooooo-kay, Tiny’s indisposed. Classy, want to catch us up?”

Krem scowled, accepting the ice pack from the nurse. “We got drunk,” he said shortly.

Dorian and Varric waited. 

And waited.

“What were you drinking,” Dorian asked slowly, “that gave you all black eyes?”

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric exclaimed, “it wasn’t the shit we found in Emprise, was it? That bottle had things  _ growing _ in it!”

Cadash glowered and continued, “We got drunk and fell asleep around the table.”

Bull’s laughter had, by this point, subsided into breathless giggles. 

“...And…?” Varric ventured.

“And then  _ this _ tosser,” Dalish said, jabbing at Grim, “outta the blue, punches me inna  _ face, _ and--”

Grim slapped away Dalish’s good hand and grunted menacingly at Skinner, who threw up his hands and said, “Ex- _ cuse _ me; I was half awake from being punched by this nug-humper, who hit me  _ twice!” _

Varric followed Skinner’s pointed middle finger. “Rocky, is that true?”

“ _ Yes, _ it’s true!” Skinner pulled aside the neck of her tunic to display a blossoming bruise. “Short fucker punched me in the tit and  _ then _ in the face.”

“Yeah, well, Stitches hit  _ me,” _ Rocky turned to Stitches, who looked ashamed.

“Stitches!” Dorian exclaimed in mock-horror. “How  _ could _ you?” which sent Bull back into cascades of laughter. 

Stitches grumbled at Krem, who insisted, “I  _ said _ I was  _ sorry _ already! Meanwhile this blighted arsehole,” he pointed at Cadash, “hasn’t apologized for a Maker-damned thing and he started it!”

“Wait, wait wait wait--” rushed Varric, writing hastily on his hairy arm with an oil crayon he grabbed from somewhere. “So Cadash punched Krem, and Krem punched Stitches, and Stitches slugged Rocky, who punched Skinner--”

“IN THE FECKING TIT!”

“--in the...torso,” he scribbled, “and then again in the eye, because you had a theme going, and Skinner punched Grim, and Grim punched Dalish…” Varric looked up at them, his mouth twitching with suppressed mirth.

Dorian frowned and asked, “Dalish, what happened to your hand, then?”

Bull had miraculously recovered enough to shout, “HA! She tried to punch the Boss!”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek, hard. “And...how did that work out for you?”

Dalish looked mournfully at her swollen, bandaged hand. “Archers shouldn’t punch thick-headed dwarves,” she mumbled.

“Wait, then how did Cadash get the shiner?” Varric asked, twisting his arm to write on the underside.

“Well, by this point we were all awake,” Krem explained, “and when Skinner saw Dalish’s face and realized that Cadash was the only one without a black eye, she reached across the table and knocked him flat.”

Iron Bull started snorting like an asthmatic druffalo. Dorian cursed his extended time in rainy Crestwood for giving him an accurate comparison.

“Well, Inquisitor?” Varric asked. “What’s your excuse?”

“What can I say?” Cadash asked guilelessly. He held up his glowing left hand. “This thing’s got a mind of its own.”

 

 


	14. Leliana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a small mystery, upon which the fate of Thedas did not hang, was a good thing.

 

Leliana did not know what Trevelyan had whispered to Krem before the Chargers left for the ruins of Haven.

 

She knew when the Chargers had left, of course. She knew when they arrived at Haven, which of the Chargers had gone, and why Grim stayed at Skyhold. She knew precisely when the Chargers began their return trip, which route up the mountain they took, and how many barrels of mead they were keeping to themselves as a ‘finders fee’. 

 

Now, watching Krem extract himself from the other mercs and make his way to Trevelyan (who wore his ‘I’m anxious but don’t want to look like I’m anxious’ face), she  _ still _ did not know what they whispered about, or what Krem took from his pack and gave to the Inquisitor. She barely heard Krem say, “Inquisitor, I can--” and a breeze rustled the leaves, taking his offer with them. Trevelyan’s response was drowned out with Bull’s over-exuberant, “Krem! My life’s been in-Krem-plete without you!” Even Leliana could hardly be expected to monitor Trevelyan’s expression or read his lips when he was blocked from view by a too-large qunari picking up and waving his hapless lieutenant in the air. 

 

When the reflection in the shield showed Trevelyan unimpeded again, he wore a wistful smile, and turned to leave. Whatever Krem had given him was stowed away. Silently cursing, she turned to ask Krem for his report, but Krem had trotted after Trevelyan, caught his elbow lightly, and said (softly, but with an earnestness that carried, if one knew how to listen), “If you change your mind…”

 

The resigned sorrow in Trevelyan’s voice amplified his low words for her. “It wouldn't be the same.” Then they parted, and Krem came up to her and offered his written report. His face showed respect and fatigue, and nothing of whatever had passed with Trevelyan. “Ma’am,” he said, and she nodded to dismiss him. 

 

She could ask Bull if he knew--too obvious. If it were something silly that passed between the Lieutenant and Inquisitor, Bull would make it into a joke for her to solve. If it were serious, he’d expect her to work it out herself. Unless she wanted to fool--to  _ try _ to fool--him into thinking she was not as good as she was… No, they were both too good for that. It would be awkward and insulting to them both. Bull was out.

 

Scout Harding was close by, hoping to hear about a friend, but she had been so intent on Rocky that Leliana doubted that she’d seen anything else. Asking Krem or Trevelyan would be cheating. She could--

 

Maker. She  _ really _ didn’t want to think about Venatori cyphers, if she was fixating on this. 

 

Besides, Trevelyan had given her blanket permission to enter his quarters to drop off missives and reports (“and cheese,” he said with no subtlety. She’d replied, “Will you be more likely to read the reports if they come with cheese?” “Absolutely,” he affirmed without shame, “unless it’s the half-molded stuff from Antiva.”). If she  _ happened  _ to see anything that caught her eye while she was doing so...well. He knew she was his spymistress when he gave her that permission. 

 

***

 

It was late when she’d finished enough work that she had a legitimate excuse to drop things off at the Inquisitor’s quarters, but she was confident that if he were asleep, she would not wake him. 

 

Sure enough, his breathing was deep and even as she mounted the stone steps. She placed her reports on his desk and, official duty complete, had a look around from the center of the room. 

 

Nothing unusual on the desk, the balconies, the chest with Trevelyan’s clothes draped over half-pulled drawers, Trevelyan along on the bed--

 

Leliana frowned. Trevelyan usually sprawled on his front, taking up as much of the bed as humanly possible. Tonight, however, he lay curled on his side around… She walked closer on silent feet. He wasn’t curled around a pillow, but...what was that?

 

She peered closer, smelled a hint of smoke amid the usual smells. Worn, soft-looking cloth dotted with mud spatters, a stuffed cylinder with a round patch of ash-greyed pink attached to a larger piece with charred edges and wool stuffing trailing out from the hole. Attached by only a few stubborn threads, a tube of fabric with another grey-pink circle lay limp and empty, bereft of stuffing. A spherical head, half-moon ears, an embroidered mouth and eyes, their stitches made uneven with abrasion.

 

Leliana straightened, smoothed all expression from her face, retreated to the top of the stairs, and tracked the sudden whirlwind of her thoughts:

 

Krem’s father was a tailor in Tevinter. A child of the soporati class would help their parents’ business before enlisting or being married off. Krem’s clothes fit as though they were bespoke, and none of the Chargers spent money on things on the same functional/decadent axis as a bespoke tailor for under-armor. Krem had narrow calluses--a different texture than weapons calluses--on the pad of his thumb and inside of his forefinger that were placed where one would pull a needle through cloth. Krem tailored his own clothes, and the patches on his tent were far better than anyone else’s. Cole brought her a beautifully made stuffed nug a week ago when she was missing Schmooples terribly, saying only, “He made it for me, since the wild ones don’t come close, but he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed it. He made a halla for Dalish, only it’s in Sera’s room now.”

 

Trevelyan had three things in his satchel (aside from the expected toiletries and clothes) when they dragged his body from the Temple rubble and put him in irons: a book of Antivan poetry, a drawing made by his nephew, and an old but obviously loved stuffed bear. The book was on Trevelyan’s bedside table, under a Genitivi volume. The drawing was tacked onto the wall as one went up the stairs, along with several subsequent drawings and clumsily-written letters from the same nephew. The last time she had seen the bear was after she walked him to his quarters to change after closing the Breach and before the short-lived celebration. The toy had been on his bedside table, next to the book. She looked at the sad remnants that Trevelyan now gently held in his sleep.

 

A miracle so small as to be absurd, and handled so carefully that ash was still intact to mark Trevelyan’s cheek under the faint white residue of dried tears.

 

She silently left. Small miracles… She’d worked with less. 

 

***

 

A runner gave her a package of letters, one heavier than the others. She opened it first, and folded within the paper was a small bolt of cloth-- cloth that had been used by a certain nursemaid who sewed toys for children twenty years ago in a certain hold in the Free Marches. Leliana smiled, running her fingertips over the fawn-colored almost-velvet cloth. Rolling it up, she walked lightly down to the courtyard where Krem was tipsily joking with Scout Harding. They both straightened up as she approached. 

 

“Ma’am,” said Krem.

 

“Ma-hic! Ma’am,” parroted Lace with a giggle. 

 

She handed Krem the cloth and said, “In case he changes his mind.”

 

His face! Confusion gave way to recognition, and went back to suspicious confusion. “How did you--” he demanded, but she was already gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do you imagine this scenario differently? Write it and ping me (athos-silvani.tumblr.com) so I can read it! Also follow dragonagecompanionsreact.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Comments give me life!


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